


Kiss of life

by Perelynn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 19,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perelynn/pseuds/Perelynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melisandre knew how to make people see things that were not there. She shared the secret knowledge of wildfire-making. She could see the morrows in the flames. But there was one trick she had never mastered: the kiss of life, bringing people from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MELISANDRE

The body of nine hundred and ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch lay still on the table, not touched yet by decay. A woman stood beside it. Her dress, red as blood, was the only streak of color in the room. The rest was gray, dark, dead.

Melisandre was contemplating the meagre leftovers of the magic ingredients in her chest. Her thin fingers seemed to live a life of their own, twisting, untwining. She didn’t remember when she last ate or had a sip of water. She didn’t have time for this nonsense, not now, not anymore. Her great mission had failed. Four daggers struck and broke it to pieces. After that, there was only a freezing cold. 

She didn’t care about the news from the South - Jaime Lannister apparently had wrought bloody havoc in the Twins, having arrived there with a score of soldiers under the pretence of a social visit. Her world narrowed down to the tiny cold cell where the man she had had such hopes for rested on the table, dead. 

She knew how to make people see things that were not there. She shared the secret knowledge of wildfire-making. She could see the morrows in the flames. But there was one trick she had never mastered: the kiss of life, bringing the dead back to the realm of the living. 

Didn’t she warn the boy? Didn’t she ask him to keep his wolf close? Why do these mule heads never listen until it’s too late?

But there is hope still. The boy is a warg, and his wolf is alive. Melisandre cast a glance under the table, at the white fur and red eyes of the animal that drowsed there. There is still time. The great battle is coming, but it’s not here yet. She will think of something. She will find a way to resurrect Azor Ahai. Of course she will. The prophecy must come true.

A strange noise came from the door: half moan, half whimper. Melisandre closed her chest and turned towards the entrance. A figure was standing there, hooded, tall, and so eerie it spooked even the red witch. Her guards are no warriors, but even they should have shouted, warning her of the upcoming threat. Instead, they stood motionless, dumbfounded, their faces blank like those of White Walkers. 

The figure pushed down its hood and Melisandre nearly whimpered herself. Yellowish skin slouching from the high cheekbones. White, brittle hair. The blue eyes that held neither warmth nor mercy. 

Are the Others on this side of the Wall already? Impossible. Melisandre would feel them approaching. This woman, however ugly she is, didn’t come here from beyond the Wall. She has fire in her, the fire no Other can possess. She looks dead, yet life still burns inside her. 

There was a soft scratching noise of claws touching stone. Ghost leapt out from under the table, ready to jump… and didn’t. The white tail, bushy and erect a moment ago, now dropped, wiggling a little. The direwolf returned to his place, resuming his vigil at his master’s side.

The dreadful guest took no notice of that. She was too busy looking at the body. The body of a man Melisandre had been trying to revive for weeks. A hoarse whisper came out of the maimed throat. Melisandre could barely make out the word, but she thought she had guessed it. 

‘Ned.’

Bewildered, Melisandre watched the woman approaching the table, bending over the body. Her bony hand touched the cold cheek of the Lord Commander. Her horrible visage came close to his weather-worn face. Her bloodless lips pecked his pale ones. She gave out a soft, dying sound and went limp, sinking on the floor. 

Cursing under her breath, Melisandre stepped towards the shapeless form on the floor. She rolled the new body over. Dead. Right. The blue eyes are still open, but lifeless. Who was she? Why was she here?

Then it dawned on her. Melisandre raised her head so briskly she nearly banged it against the edge of the table. She stood upright. On the other side of the table, Ghost already stood on his hind legs, resting his front paws on his master’s hand. The direwolf’s red tongue was out, his red eyes focused on the face of the human in front of him. 

Jon Snow looked the same. But his eyelashes moved.


	2. JON

Jon Snow opened his eyes. It was a simple thing to do, yet he barely coped. He felt stiff, frozen, rigid. A wave of inexplicable horror rushed through him. The balkiness of his body was unnatural. Unnerving. Deeply not right. He ought to be fast as wind, his legs strong, his nose keen, his vision sharp. 

The world around him was bleak and empty. What was he doing here? What was going on? He didn’t have answers and he didn’t care much. His thoughts were slow, too, like water turning to ice. 

‘You should eat.’ 

Someone’s hands propped him up, put a small wooden bench across his knees. He looked at the plate in front of him, indifferent. 

The food was hot. Steam tickled his nostrils, and suddenly Jon remembered. His teeth biting flesh, digging into it, tearing. Warm blood flowing down his throat. The memory was vivid and intense, bordering on painful, and quickly turned into wild, bestial hunger.

The sausage was overcooked and reeking of smoke. He still wolfed it down, devoured it, barely chewing, and lunged for the next one, angry at his clumsy hands. 

‘Do you recognize me, Jon Snow?’ 

Someone was talking to him. He paid no heed, too busy licking his plate. 

Nimble fingers took the dish out of his unsteady grasp. He wanted to growl.

‘Rrrturn!’ he barked instead.

‘Good!’ He felt someone’s fingers in his hair. He vaguely remembered the gesture being pleasant to him in the past. ‘You didn’t forget how to speak. Soon, you’ll be back to your old self.’

***

‘Bowen Marsh became the new Lord Commander,’ Melisandre was saying. Grey dawn crept into the room through a small window, paling the candlelight. ‘However, young brothers didn’t vote. Same for the wildlings. They say they made a deal with Jon Snow, not with the Night Watch. The harrison of the Long Barrow declared their independence.

‘Edd?’ Jon asked bleakly. He still had to struggle with long phrases, but the wolf in him, so powerful the night before and at the moment of waking, was getting weaker, loosening its grip on his mind. But it never withdrew completely, not anymore. 

‘The spearwives took Steward Tollett hostage. They treat him fair as far as I heard. He cannot leave, but otherwise can do what he pleases.’ 

‘Wun-Wun?’

‘The giant is imprisoned and guarded. His wound has healed well. Marsh is afraid of him, I reckon. He is afraid of everything these days, everything that can upset the unsteady balance. That was another reason why no one tried to stop me when I ordered to bring you to my tower.’

‘What was the first reason?’

‘Marsh knew he couldn’t anyway.’ The red woman gave him a meaningful smile. She looked quite pleased with herself. 

Jon didn’t reply. 

‘Do you see now that my visions are true?’ Melisandre asked with just a hint of a reproach, sitting beside him on the bed. Her hip was touching him. Before, he'd say she was far too close for his comfort. Now it didn't bother him. 

‘Yes,’ Snow admitted dispassionately. ‘My brothers tried to kill me.’

‘They didn’t try. They killed you. It was the power of R’hllor that brought you back to life.’

If the red witch wanted to impress him, she was disappointed. The former Lord Commander treated this statement with the same amount of pure disinterest as he did at the rest of her news. 

‘I looked into the flames,’ said the red woman curtly, not bothering with any more niceties. ‘I know what near future brings. You...’

Jon waved her words away. He almost didn’t have to focus on the movement now, but he preferred to make sure he didn’t slap her accidentally. 

‘I know what future brings. I know what I need to do. ‘

‘Do you?’ the red witch asked, curious. ‘What is it, then?’

He told her. She frowned.

‘You cannot leave the Wall,’ she said. 'Your place is here, Jon Snow.'

'My place is where I say it is,' Jon replied. 'I had my share of responsibility. I was relieved of it. Now I will do what I see fit.'

'King!' croaked Mormont's raven. 'King! King!'

***

Jon barely had time to break his fast when he had the first visitors. The news of his revival travelled instantaneously.

'We need your help, Lord Snow,' said Othell Yarwyck. 

Jon didn’t answer. Ghost glowered at the man with angry ruby eyes, and Yarwyck stopped talking. 

Bowen Marsh, the nine hundred ninety ninth Lord Commander, gave his predecessor a sour look.

'The wildlings your brought here are going unruly,' he grumbled.

'I had no reason to complain about their behavior before you stabbed me,' Jon answered calmly. 

Marsh flinched.

'We are on the verge of open mutiny,' he admitted grudgingly. ''The only reason the Wall is not at war yet is because both sides cannot afford it. However, one tiny misstep is enough to start the bloodshed.'

'It's your problem, Lord Commander, not mine.'

'You brought them here!' Marsh shouted, poking the air with his finger. Ghost bared his fangs. Marsh withdrew his finger hurriedly. 'And now you denounce your responsibility?'

'It was you who took this responsibility off my shoulders,' Jon reminded mercilessly. 'I expect you to deal with it'

'We need your help,' Yarwykh repeated.

Jon gave him a cold stare.

'It so happens that I might be inclined to comply,' he said. 'And to take off your hands the wildlings you fear and despise so much.'

'What do you have in mind?' Bowen Marsh asked suspiciously.

'Same thing I had in my mind when you decided to stab me in the back. I have a task. And to fulfil it it, I need an army.'

'And the task is?'

'Winterfell.'


	3. JON

The wildlings knew how to move in deep snow. They used it to their advantage, rolling in it to make themselves less visible. They were proficient in getting food in winter: tracking game, discovering animals' summer stashes, digging roots. They knew how to move silently, even in relatively large numbers. Now, with the Wall safely behind them, they had no fear of the night and the chilling cold it brought. Cold was just cold, nothing more.

They didn't know how to fight properly, and Jon didn't have time to train them, them being constantly on the marsh. But it barely mattered for the kind of attack he had in mind. It was in the black of night when the sudden force appeared from amongst the trees surrounding the castle. They brought ladders with them, but no torches, and there was no moon in the sky to aid the defenders. A silent stream of attackers clad in snow-crusted garments flowed upwards, then sideways, hitting and stoning and stunning. The horns blared but it was too late. 

This was how, quietly and almost bloodlessly, Dreadfort had fallen. 

***

'Your alliances are shaking, Roose,' said Lady Dustin. 'They say Jon Stark is coming.'

'Eddard Stark had no trueborn sons with such name,' Lord Bolton replied calmly.

'That's how people call him. Some still refer to him as Lord Snow. Although mostly he is known as the Wild Wolf.'

'Very fitting,' said Lord Bolton softly. 'His army consists mostly of the wildlings, I hear? Most of them never even saw a castle. How come they managed to storm one?'

'They are led by a brother of Young Wolf. Robb Stark won every battle he fought.'

'And lost a war. As for this bastard boy... I'm not sure to what extent he understand what he's doing. His actions seem to be wild, like his nickname. And the rumors about his death - I don't know what exactly happened to him, but I honestly believe the experience might have left him half-mad.'

'What are you planning to do?' the woman pressed.

'Wait for him. And while I'm waiting, I'll make sure everyone who is here with me hears the rumors I mentioned. Jon Snow, a known traitor, who has broken his Night Watch vows and fought against his fellow Northmen. Possibly demented, too.'

'Whatever is his name, his reputation and his state of mind, he's still half-Stark. And he knows this castle. What will you do if the threat proves to be real?'

A ghost of a smile appeared on Roose Bolton's thin lips.

'I'll parley with him.'

***

'This is not Arya,' Jon said dispassionately. The girl before him wailed and started to sob uncontrollably. 'This is the daughter of Winterfell's steward, Vayon Poole.'

Stannis nodded. Around them, people were scampering, putting down their tents, saddling their horses, packing their belongings. The king's army, fed at last, was preparing to get on the move again.

'Thought as much,' Stannis said. 'She doesn't have noble enough look to be a Stark. Take her away - and take away her tongue. She lied to a king. This cannot be borne.'

'No!' the poor girl screamed. 'Jon! Jon, please!'

'Of course, she lied,' Jon Snow agreed. 'Few people wouldn't lie with their life in stake. Let her go, Your Grace. The girl has seen enough horror. And you will not win loyalty of your people by maiming women.'

Stannis grunted. 

'I have more pressing matters on my mind besides a well-being of a whining weakling. Take her away... intact. She's free to go.' 

Jayne was led away, still sobbing. 

'Roose Bolton's claim on Winterfell is void,' Stannis said as soon as he turned his back to the girl. 'Now that you're not bound by your vows to the Night Watch, I repeat my offer. Bend the knee to me, marry the wildling princess and I'll bestow Winterfell on you.'

Stannis seemed to be the only person in the entire camp who took the news regarding Jon's death and revival without a shade of doubt. 'Melisandre's arts are truly admirable,' was all the king had to say on the matter. Now he seemed eager to grab the opportunity of forging a new alliance.

'And I, once again, am grateful for the offer, Your Grace,' Jon replied. 'But my answer stays the same.'

Stannis clenched his jaws.

'And what do I owe such display of disrespect?'

'At the moment I'm not inclined to pledge allegiance to anyone,' Jon responded. 'But I agree with you that the North needs a strong leader. Someone to protect and guide its people. I'm going to take some steps to make sure this place is taken by the right person.'

'That's enough, Snow!' Stannis flared. 'I was willing to allow you some leeway, but you've gone way too far. You think too much of yourself if you believe you can afford to throw my gifts into my face.'

'The question is, Your Grace,' Jon Snow replied softly, 'what can you do to me if I refuse? Kill me? Dishonor me? Brand me a turncloak? What can you do _that wasn't done to me before_?'

The was a long pause. The king gritted his teeth. 

'You'll regret this decision, Jon Snow. Mark my word.'

'I'm sure it's none of your concerns, Your Grace. Right now we have a castle to take. Lots of things may change before we're done.'

***

'A word, boy,' came a voice from the shadow of the nearest tent, for some reason still standing.

Jon turned his head to the direction of the sound. Ghost trotted into the tent and sniffed, and then sit down at the entrance and gave his master a big yawn. Jon shrugged and followed his wolf.

'Thank you for accepting my invitation,' said an elderly man who looked nearly square because of all the furs he wrapped himself into. His shaggy cloak was fastened with a gold and bronze pinecone-shaped clasp. 'And sorry about calling you 'boy'. That's what old age does to you. Sometimes you forget to add pretty titles.'

'I don't care much for the pretty titles, lord Liddle,' Jon replied. 'What did you want to talk about?"

'I've heard your conversation with a king, boy,' the old man said. 'He offered you Winterfell, and you refused. You, half-Stark. You, brother of the Young Wolf. I'm curious to know why.'

'I have my reasons,' Jon answered. 'I am not necessarily inclined to share them with you.'

Liddle chuckled.

'Understandable, quite understandable, my lad. But let's assume for a moment I'm not asking out of sheer curiosity. How about you explain your reasons, and then I explain mine?' 

Jon peered into the old man's shrewd, wise eyes.

'Winterfell cannot belong to me,' he said. 'It belongs to the trueborn children of my father, to Sansa and Arya. I came here to free my sister. The girl proved to be only an impostor, but I do believe the real Arya is still alive. My goal is to go and search for her. To bring her home.'

'Ah.'

'But I will not leave Winterfell unattended. I mean to appoint a guardian who'll keep the castle before I return.'

Liddle's eyes twinkled.

'Thank you for answering my question honestly, boy. And let me add some wisdom to that wild plan of yours. When you pick a guardian, pick well. For Lady Arya is not the only one who needs to be brought back.'

Jon's eyes narrowed.

'What's this supposed to mean? Speak plainly, my lord.'

Lord Liddle spoke.


	4. DAENERYS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the canon, Dany's chapters are usually unbearably long. I've always found it very tiring. Here, there will be no such thing.  
> The Dothraki grammar here may be far from perfect.

Daenerys Targaryen stood facing Khal Jhaqo, the _kos_ who was the first to declare himself _khal_ when he found out about her her sun-and-stars’ illness. The one who had twenty thousand join him. The one who raped little Eroeh, gave the poor girl to his riders and slit her throat.  
‘ _Gwe!_ ’ he said, his lips parting in a mockery of a smile. ‘ _Driv chiori._ ’*

Mago, his bloodrider, let out a low chuckle, but most of the _khalasar_ was staring, marvelling, at Drogon. The dragon paid the people no mind, still ripping the carcass of the charred horse. 

‘ _Vo oakat qorasolat akka_ ,’** Khal Jhaqo continued. Dany bared her teeth. Coward. She could read his thoughts as if they were written across his face. He didn’t dare approach her. He was afraid her touch would weaken him, like it weakened the mighty Khal Drogo.

‘ _Annakholat mae!_ ’ Khal Jhaqo roared. ‘ _Aggendat mae! Dichat mae nhare saqoyalat!_ ’***

Drogon snapped his head up and looked at the man with the narrowed fiery eyes. The Dothraki who already started moving to exercise the command, stopped dead.

‘ _Annevalat ivezho_ ,’ Khal Jhaqo added. ‘ _Me laz davralat._ ’****

Daenerys has just got as much of that she cared to stomach. Once she promised these men will plead her for the mercy they showed Eroeh.

‘Drogon,’ she said softly, touching the warm black flank of her dragon. ‘ _Drakaris_.’

She knew her dragon has just eaten. He was not hungry. If anything, he was in a mood to play. 

A narrow beam of flame shot at Khal Jhogo, licking his face. The man roared with pain as his eyes were running out, his face turning into charred and bloody mess. His stallion made a wild leap and pranced, getting rid of the rider. The surrounding Dothraki were shouting all at once, trying to calm down their horses. One of them, Mago, jumped down to the ground, drew his _arakh_ and launched at Drogon, his face contorted with rage - or was it fear? The dragon’s reaction was quicker than lightning. His long neck curled, his head moved towards the ground, and the next thing Mago knew was the dragon’s razor-sharp black teeth tearing at his calf. The _arakh_ descended, only to be met with hard scales surrounding the dragon’s lower jaw.

Dothraki people were no novices to bloody carnage. A sight of a massacre filled them with joy, made their hearts beat faster. But right now they looked scared, like cruel children who had find out for the first time that fire didn’t care for their cruelty. 

While the two men squirmed on the ground making noises no one would recognise as human, Daenerys climbed atop her dragon.

‘Behold’, she said to the Dothraki horde, not bothering to switch to their tongue. She is a Queen of Seven Kingdoms. It’s them who’ll have to learn her language now. She knew they did enough of trade to understand her words. ‘Behold my son, the Stallion that Will Mount the World. Behold and bend the knee.’

And they did. One by one by one they knelt, pledging their allegiance to her dragon.

=======  
*Look! Dead woman.  
**You are not even worth a rape.  
***Finish her! Tear her apart! Bring me her bloodied head.  
****Leave the beast. It may be useful.


	5. ARYA

When in her wolf dream she found the maimed corpse of her mother, she howled several nights in a row out of grief and helplessness.

When she heard rumours that Aunt Lysa perished, she told herself: “I am Cat of the Canals. I don’t have an aunt.”

When the kind man asked her about the names she repeated every night, she told him there were no names. She still whispered her prayer, but hatred that once burned red hot within her was now well-flecked with grey ash of oblivion.

The girl was learning to be no one. She was succeeding. She believed it. 

Until a trade ship brought news. Black brothers stabbed their own Lord Commander, Ned Stark’s bastard. 

The girl felt something turn deep inside her. It’s been ages since she last cried, but that night she wept herself to sleep. She always loved her wolf dreams, but that night they were wilder than ever, filled with thirst and blood and fury. 

When the girl woke up in the morning, she knew her name. Arya Stark. The mask she worked on so hard peeled off and flaked away, and from underneath, the wolf has arisen. She will go to the Wall. She will cut their throats. All of them. Like she did that pretty boy, the deserter.

She knew it meant death for her as well. She remembered the story Old Nan told her once, in another lifetime. The story of the girl that decided to join the Night Watch. The story that had no happy ending. 

She knew she no one no longer. No one’s name was Legion. She was alone. 

But the wolf inside her, the fierce gold-eyed beast growled and urged her forward, ignoring the fear, oblivious of the doubts. Enemy. Find. Kill. For the pack. For you and yours.

‘Farewell, Arya Stark,’ said the kind man. 

For the first time she looked at him with the eyes of the wolf. Not with a lazy eye, not with a trusting eye, not _upwards_. She bared her teeth, one predator greeting the other. Then she turned her back at him and went away without a word. 

When the girl came to the docks this time, a new name jumped at her from the clamour of rumours, gossips and tales. Jon Stark. The Wild Wolf.


	6. DAENERYS

When Dany returned to Meereen, she found it in the middle of a battle. 

The Yunkai besieged her city. She saw trebuchets throw the bodies of those who had ridden the pale mare over the city walls. She let out a furious cry: _‘Drakaris!’_ The trebuchet line turned into a short-lived firework, but after that the queen’s rage receded, yielding to surprise. Yunkai army was fighting her Unsullied… but not only them. From the sea, other warriors were coming. They got to the shore by boats, jumped into the water and plunged into the battle like it was a feast. Further in the sea she could she ships. The sails sported a kraken - and the three-headed dragon of Targaryens.

Dany descended to give short instructions to her army leaders. Her commands mostly comprised of pointing out with her finger at the clashed forces. These, we fight. These, we fight together with. She didn’t have to give any speeches. She didn’t need to raise her soldiers’ spirits up before battle. When it comes to bloodshed, Dothraki do not need encouragement.

Getting back into the sky, Dany cast a content glance on the two cages in the rearguard. In each, a man was dying. Khal Jhaqo tossed and turned on the floor, fighting the fever and losing. Inflammation has spread on both eyes now, and the right ear. Mago lost his voice cursing the growing pain in his torn sigh for hours and hours and hours. Both were given as much water as they asked for, but not a bite to eat. They were rotting alive, and the fact that they could quench their thirst simply prolonged their agony.

Dany steered Drogon to the shore. 

Suddenly, there came a sound, a low, hoarse roar, chilling to the bone. The dragon beneath her shuddered as if pierced with a spear once more. She had to throw herself forward, clinging to the scaly neck as fast as she could. Drogon was rearing up in the sky. 

Meereen disappeared from view, blocked by two pairs of wings, moss-green and cream-white. 

‘Viserion! Rhaegal!’ Dany called, but the wind muted her words. Who freed her dragons from their pit? Did they free themselves? Viserion still had the iron band around his neck, along with a piece of chain. Rhaegal somehow contrived to get rid of his. And, gods, they’ve _grown_.

The sound came again. There was a call in it, an imperious pull, an order and a challenge. Drogon responded with a roar of his own, full of ire and trepidation. Her dragon was whirling in the sky as if struggling with an invisible rope wrapped around his neck. Dany held for her dear life, clutching at the ringed scales, breaking her nails, cutting her palms, biting her lips in desperate concentration.

Then her dragon _fuffed_ loudly and levelled off, snorting and fuming. His scales settled, going back to being sleek and shiny. The ones under Dany’s hands were wet with her blood. 

She looked down. They were flying in wide circles above the shoreline, but she couldn’t see what was going on on the sand. Wings blocked the way: Viserion and Rhaegal hovered over something like two seagulls over dead fish. Through the wind Dany could hear their indignant screeching. However, none of them was breathing fire yet, which was surprising.

The queen kicked her dragon with her heels. Drogon tried to balk, but after some amount of persistent kicking grudgingly made his descend. The ground approached so quickly it made her dizzy. Dany shook her head and jumped down on the sand. 

Shadow fell on her face. 

A man stood there, towering over her almost like her sun-and-stars did. He was muscular, fierce and gloomy. His right hand seemed charred, reminding her of those horses Drogon hunted in Dothraki sea. 

‘The most beautiful woman in the world,’ the man said. She could tell he was not made for eloquent speeches. His every phrase dropped like a blow of an axe. ‘I came for you. I tamed your dragons. Marry me. I’ll take you to Westeros.’

 _I’m already married_ , Dany wanted to say, trying to bring back the face of Hizdahr zo Loraq in her memory. His visage came blurry, his temper vague. She wondered where he was now. Hiding in his pyramid, most likely. Or, maybe, fighting in the battlefield? She doubted that. Whatever is the case, her marriage to Hizdahr didn’t give her what he promised it would. 

‘You tamed the dragons, aye,’ said a new voice. ‘But for how long? Will you wager they don’t get their free will back in a month? In a week? In a day?

To her right, a man has stepped forward. He had dark eyes, strong jaw, massive shoulders and enormous hands. His nose looked like it was broken more than once. 

‘My queen,’ he bowed to Dany. ‘We need to talk. Time is short - and precious.’


	7. THE WARDEN OF THE NORTH

Roose Bolton spooned some brown stew from his bowl, made a delicate sip and pursed his thin lips. The castle was well-stocked game-wise, but spices were scarce and it showed. Tasted.

Lord Bolton looked around the Great Hall of Winterfell, full of people. His glance, carefully blank, run over the faces of his bannermen, evaluating their mood. Ryswells look gloomy. No surprise there - everybody is sick and tired of sitting in this castle. Freys are jesting with each other and everyone around. Again, no wonder - these dolts have nothing to lose. Locke and Serwyn are rolling dice. Roose wondered what Serwyn would gamble away this time. Manderly, predictably, is stuffing his stomach. The wound on his chin does nothing to stop him from gorging himself on the horse stew like there is no tomorrow. Is it a coincidence that there are almost no horses left in Winterfell?

The people at the crest tables, Roose told himself, can be divided to three groups, depending on the reason why they joined his cause. The first are bound to Boltons by blood. Those can be relied upon. They will not turn their back to the enemy in the battle. They will not change side. The second group are dead men. They will be fighting for Roose, for there is no mercy for them otherwise. People in the third group pledged their swords to the new Warden of the North out of fear or due to ill luck. They will disperse as soon as they have the chance. If it comes to battle, Roose will need to make sure the latter are surrounded by the former to prevent unwelcome incidents. 

The bastard still didn’t reply. Strange. Roose offered him a parley. The boy had enough time to accept. He is a Stark, by blood if not by name. He will come. 

Wings flapped above their heads. Through the hole under the hall roof, unseen from below, a raven flew in. The bird was holding a roll of parchment in its beak. Lord Bolton frowned. Why did it arrive here and not into the rookery?

The raven circled the hall, drawing everybody’s attention, and then made its descend, ending up on the table in front of Lord Manderly. It jumped coyly towards the fat man and gave him the letter. In a manner. The lord’s mouth was opened wide in astonishment, and the bird tried to stuff the parchment in, as if feeding a birdling. Manderly gathered his wits and grabbed the scroll at the last moment. The raven startled, croaked hoarsely and flew away though the same hole under the rooftop it used as an entrance. 

This short accident was followed by hollow silence, broken by the soft voice of the Warden of the North.

‘Pass the letter here, Lord Manderly.’

The fat man shrugged, gave the scroll to one of his squires and returned to his plate. 

Roose took the parchment and nodded, inviting the rest of his bannermen to follow Lord Manderly’s example. Before he had the time to unroll the letter, however, there was that flapping noise again. This time there were two ravens, both holding letters in their beaks. The birds didn’t descend, just threw the scrolls down. One dropped in front of Lord Serwyn. Another traveled to Lord Locke. 

Roose gave the lords a cold stare. They parted with their letters without a word. Before reading the messages, Lord Bolton looked up (a wise precaution), only to discover a snow owl, soaring soundlessly over their heads. It dropped its letter on the floor. There were whispers around the hall, but no one dared to pick it up.

‘Fix the hole. Kill the birds,’ Lord Bolton ordered quietly.

The owl seemed to understand his words. It flounced toward the opening, but it was too late. The bird dropped down, pierced by an arrow. More arrows flew; the hole under the roof disappeared from view, blocked by the fletching. 

Ramsay gave his father a smug look, but Lord Bolton looked like he forgot about the birds already. He was studying the letters. They were all the same. 

_We have nothing to parley about. Boltons hold no rights to Winterfell. If you, Lord Bolton, are ready to surrender, come out of the South Gates alone. If not - I will storm the castle._

That was all.

For the first time Roose allowed the thought that the Wild Wolf may turn out more dangerous than his kingly brother. The boy served as Lord Commander, he must have picked up a trick or two in regards to warfare. And that assault on his life apparently taught him prudence. Or does he have clever advisors? Stannis and his people, evidently. Hardly wildlings. 

Roose drummed his fingers on the table. The boy is a threat, and the sooner he is eliminated the better. However, the chance for parley is gone. Should he try to make an alliance with the bastard's followers behind his back maybe? Roose shook his head. He rarely dealt with wildlings, but even his meagre experience taught him they were unreliable, unpredictable and had no notion of discipline. Oh well. Storm it is. The boy, if he truly has Stark blood in his veins, will be leading his army himself. One arrow is enough to rob both the wildlings of their chief and to bereave Stannis of the ally with a claim to Winterfell. If arrows don’t suffice, well… Roose looked at his son. Ramsay is fierce but his fighting skills are far from exquisite. The wolf pup, on the other hand, had the same training as his trueborn brother. No. Roose will face the bastard himself.


	8. JON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a game master, I passionately hate the mere mentioning of the secret passages in and out of Winterfell. For there are none.  
> As a ficwriter, I happily run with the idea. Because somewhere deep inside, I’m fluffy and romantic, and want Starks back at their homestead.

The crescent moon swam lazily amongst the heavy clouds. Underneath, a massive dark castle slept uneasily in the bed of snow. The white eventually yielded to black where the flatland surrendered to the dense forest. Between the trees, fires were glowing, dim and weak in the snowstorm. Atop the castle walls, helmets of the guardsmen glimmered faintly in response.

Footstep. Footstep. Footstep. 

To the north of the castle, people were plodding through the snowdrifts. Their clothes were crusted with white, their movements were silent as winter. 

They trod carefully one after another, stepping exactly into the footprints left by their leader. Even if snow doesn’t cover the tracks by morning, nobody will be able to say now many people were here. A dozen? A hundred? 

A small ravine came into view. Down below, unseen from the castle walls, a large black hole marred the stark white side of the bluff. Several people jumped down to the ravine. Some went on, leaving a false trace for those who may be watching from afar. If the tracks become visible in the daylight, they should lead back to the forest. 

The tunnel was dark and narrow. Men moved forward groping their way, clinging to the icy walls. The most dangerous trap waited for them in the end. The tunnel ended with a vertical shaft, going both up and down. One needed strong muscles and a supple body to jump, grab an iron bracket step, also covered with ice, push themselves up, and continue like this for another three dozen steps.

Jon met his men in a small circular room, giving a silent clap on the shoulder to each newcomer. It was not how he imagined his homecoming. They were at the lower levels of the tower Bran fell off so long ago. Wind was wailing through the gaps between the stones. The clay holding them together cracked and fell off after the fire set by Theon Greyjoy. The Broken Tower sagged, threatening to fall apart at any moment. Bolton’s men didn’t have the guts to take residence here. They preferred the Armory, the Guards Hall and the Guest House, however overcrowded. The bravest ones occupied the First Keep.

Bran. Jon’s thoughts turned to his younger brother. Little Bran, dead to the world. No one knew Winterfell like he did. Long ago, when the days were still golden and summer snows lay shallow, Bran discovered many secrets of the old castle. The boy was burning with desire to share the precious knowledge with someone who would appreciate. Who would understand. Who wouldn’t say a word to Lady Catelyn.

Bran shared his discoveries with his beloved bastard brother. If someone told Jon back then what he was going to use this information for, Snow would dismiss it as a joke. 

The wildlings were making themselves comfortable in their hideout, preparing for a long wait. Some were already skinning rats they caught in the ruins. Jon nodded. It will take several nights to sneak five hundred men in here. The wildlings know how to lay low. How to live without open fire. Aside from the Broken Tower, there are crypts nearby. This should make enough room for everybody. Men will need to take care crossing the graveyard, but it shouldn’t be too hard, nobody is watching it anyway. The First Keep, full of Bolton’s soldiers, doesn’t have windows overlooking the crypts. The only danger are the sentries on the walls, but they mostly look outside, not inside, and use every conceivable reason to gather around the brazier for warmth and for chat. 

The main challenge for wildlings is to stay unnoticed for long enough. If they are noticed… the battle will happen earlier than anticipated. 

And for now, Jon will be the only person to use the secret passage in the well to _leave_ Winterfell.


	9. THE WARDEN OF THE NORTH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last. Let the long-awaited battle for Winterfell commence.

The battle started in the morning, when the storm clouds gave way to the bleak winter sun. The ragtag army of attackers looked like a bad patchwork: bitty groups of wildlings led by the Baratheon’s knights. Roose didn’t spare them more than a glance, his attention focused elsewhere. Two riders were visible atop a small hill, close enough to have a good view of the South Gates, yet too far to be within reach of arrows. Two banners flew in the wind: a stag surrounded by flames, and a white direwolf on the field of grey. The latter was mirrored by a very real white beast pacing at his master’s feet. 

Roose shrugged. The boy is cautious, but the caution won’t get him anywhere. If this is his army, the Warden of the North may as well return to the Great Hall and enjoy the brown slop that passes for stew nowadays. Too many shield-wielders, too few bowmen. Ridiculous shortage of ladders. No rams to speak of. How are they going to storm the South Gates without a ram? The gates are frozen shut. And look at the formation, it’s uneven at best. Stannis’s knights are seasoned and disciplined warriors, but will the wildlings listen to their commands? The savages are not exactly known for their obedience. And overall, they are too few. Judging by the fires in the forest, Roose has expected a far bigger force. 

He spotted a troop led by a huge man with a fiery red beard. Now, this one _is_ dangerous. His people maintained good formation. They used their shields wisely. They moved lithely through the snow. Impressive. The giant looked like the wildest of the wild; who’d think his battle skills to be that advanced? Roose went to the eastern window to give new instructions to his bowmen: kill the redhead as soon as he comes near. Same goes for all the other commanders. 

A bird shrieked in the sky. Roose looked up. He barely had time to recoil. A falcon, beak open, claws at the ready, was coming down directly at him.

The bird didn’t make it to the window. Several arrows whizzed past, one of them ending the falcon’s flight. Roose watched the feathery mass drop on the ground, sheathed his dagger, then took it out again. 

He was expecting this. The boy is a warg. Even if it weren’t for the bird parade in the Great Hall, Lord Bolton spent enough time around the Young Wolf to know exactly how Ned Stark’s son can make a wild animal to do his bidding.

Roose was about to return to the southern window when one of his bowmen let out a rasping cry and fell down to the courtyard. Before he disappeared in the snowdrift, Lord Bolton got a glimpse of fletching sticking out of the soldier’s back.

His back. 

Lord Bolton darted away from the window, taking cover behind the wall. Bending low, he moved to the northern window and peeked at the courtyard. 

At first, he didn’t see anything suspicious. Then there were shouts of alarm, followed by the sounds of fighting: clang of weapons, shrieks of pain, battle cries, hoarse commands. Not all of the voices sounded familiar to him.

It took Roose several heartbeats to realize that the white moving mass in the main courtyard is a crowd in snow-crusted clothes. How in seven hells the boy’s soldiers got into the castle? Have they entered through the East Gate? Nonsense. The grate is frozen into the ground, the bridge chains are so covered with ice they are non-functional. The northern castle wall doesn’t have a passage outside. The Hunter’s Gate, then? They have been used just recently. But why are the wildlings coming from the direction of the First Keep?

Nevertheless, Roose could now see the bastard’s plan clearly. To attack both from inside and outside, to confuse the defenders, to make them spread their forces. A brave plan… but hopeless. What can a handful of people, however strong and skilful, do against an army? They are already pushed back by Rodrik Ryswell’s knights coming from the Great Keep, and Freys are mauling them at the Guest House.

Roose went to the stairs, gesturing to one of his guards to come near. 

‘Tell Rodrik to take a couple of them captive,’ he ordered quietly. 

The guard nodded and left. Roose returned to the window. He was frowning. So far everything seemed to be under control, but was it really? The wolf pup has already proved to be more cunning than expected. 

New glance from the window confirmed his fears. The wildlings were coming and coming. The snow-covered clothes were now streaked with red, but the white stream did not thin. If anything, it was swelling. Roose’s frown grew deeper and deeper. How in seven hells did the wolf pup sneak in this small army? And where were they all hiding in the overcrowded castle?

Roose shot a glance in the southern window and felt cold fury grip his heart. The attackers used the confusion to shift almost fully to the right. The South Gates were never their goal. The Hunter’s Gate was. And the wildlings in the courtyard were going to open the gates for them. From the inside.

The guard came back and instantly was sent away again. This time, Roose wanted Ryswells to adhere to the updated plan of defense. At all cost, they must hold the Hunter’s Gate. The wildlings inside must not reach it. If they cannot be stopped in melee, stones should be thrown at them from the walls. The stone debris Winterfell has no shortage of. 

The guard left. Lord Bolton turned back to the window - and barely managed to brush aside an owl that had flown into the room without a sound. The bird kept him occupied for some time. He met its claws with his armored glove, evaded an angry peck of the beak and finally finished the owl with his dagger.

Roose threw the bloodied little body out of the window. He glanced at the hilltop where the two figures under the banners of stag and direwolf were still watching the battle from afar. Damn this bastard. Everything Roose thought he knew about Jon Snow proved wrong. He will have to figure out a different way to finish the wolf pup.

Lord Bolton moved back to the northern window and saw things going from bad to worse. 

The attackers were now at the Hunter’s Gate. Most of the defenders were busy throwing down pieces of wood, chunks of castle masonry, gargoyles. The wildlings inside were still outnumbered two-to-one, but the courtyards were too small for the defenders to make good use of this advantage. The air was thick with arrows flying in all directions. Bowmen on the walls did their duty, but they were much fewer now: wildlings outside had good marksmen, too. The stream of white and red and grey moved through the main courtyard, slowly but steadily getting closer to the Hunter’s Gate.

Roose almost missed the flapping sound muffled by the clatter. 

This time it was a raven. It acted much wiser than the owl, whirling around, blocking the view, but staying safely out of reach of the dagger. Lord Bolton lost his patience. He didn’t have time for these tricks. He darted towards the stairs, running to the lower level of the tower.

‘Get rid of the bird,’ he ordered to the guard, while moving to the northern window.

He heard a long strained creaking, followed by a triumphant battle cry together with stamping of many feet. The sounds of steel meeting steel, and flesh, and bone grew louder. 

The Warden of the North let out an elaborate curse. 

They lost the gates. With every passing moment the number of attackers in the Winterfell courtyards was increasing. Lord Bolton pursed his thin lips. There is no point in fighting to the bitter end - and to be left alone face to face with the victorious army. 

The Bolton’s banner over Winterfell went down, giving way to the pure white one.

***

‘You broke the vow you gave to your sovereign. You assaulted the King of the North and my brother. I, Jon...’ Snow had a moment of hesitation. ‘...Jon of Stark blood, sentence you to die.’

The sword moved with an angry hiss. The snow under the scaffold went red. The severed head rolled. Its features still bore a look of surprise, as if its former owner couldn’t believe what was happening.

Roose Bolton remembered the moment Winterfell was taken. He stood, surrounded by his most loyal allies, looking at the approaching man with the fiery red beard. The wildling was followed by his troop, and it was exactly that: a troop. Not a motley band of vagabonds thrown together by hunger and misfortunes. These people moved like trained soldiers. 

It all became clear when a man walking beside the redhead lowered his hood. Roose recognized Jon Snow instantly. The bastard took after his father in looks. Bolton wished he could say the same about actions. So, it was Snow who trained and led this party, not the red-bearded brute. And the rider on the far hilltop was just a decoy.

The next person brought to the scaffold was Hosteen Frey. Snow repeated his short speech, and then the sixth son of Walder Frey followed the third. 

Grey eyes of the wolf pup turned to him. 

Roose met his glance with a steady gaze and a stony face. Will the boy take the risk? Will he let his main enemy near?

‘Lord Roose Bolton,’ the bastard said. ‘You are accused of aiding the murder of the King of the North and announcing a false claim to Winterfell. I have all the rights to execute you.’ Snow fell silent for a moment. ‘But I’ll give you a choice. You and your son can die today - or take the black. The Wall needs more men.’

Roose fought back a satisfied smile. He made many mistakes, but his main estimate turned out to be correct. The boy was truly a son of Eddard Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Tyrion.


	10. TYRION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Westerosi. He played Tyrion in the forum game where I played Drogon, and it gave me the inspiration.

Tyrion was watching the dragons. 

The green one and the white one were fighting like pigeons over crumps. A golden necklace, molten and shapeless at this point, lay on the sand between them. The dragons danced around it, screeching, craning their necks, snapping their teeth and breathing fire at each other. The queen’s dragon, the black one, didn’t deign to take part in their squabbling. Every time the fighting got near him, he just gave the other two a stare, and they backed away, bending their necks as if bowing. 

‘What do they eat?' Tyrion wondered aloud, only to remember he knew the answer. They ate meat, of course. After the battle the queen barely managed to stop them from gorging themselves on corpses. And she wouldn’t have much chance without that enchanted horn, to be honest. No wonder Tyrion forgot it. It was not the memory one wanted to cherish.

The green dragon arched its neck. The fire that streamed out was transparent, almost colorless. _What a beauty._ Its scales were of rich green color, like moss, like Jaime’s eyes, like emeralds in Cersei’s crown. The bronze eyes shone like Shae’s bracelets under the hot sun of the King’s Landing. _No. I no longer have a family. I no longer have a woman. They all betrayed me, both love and kin._

Tyrion turned to the white beast. That’s what a predator ought to be. Viserion was cunning, vicious and merciless, reminding Tyrion of Maekar the Cruel. While the green dragon was busy showing off, the white one dived down, ending up under the moss-green wing, and pushed with all its weight, toppling the rival down onto the ground. The green dragon floundered, trying to free the flattened wing and failing. The white beast grabbed the trinket and ran away. Covering what it believed was a safe distance, the victorious dragon dropped its prize on the sand and sat on it. 

The green one finally got onto its feet. It sniffed the sand where the necklace used to be, and shouted angrily. The white dragon ignored that. The green one dropped on its stomach with a final ‘thud!’, turning its back to the thief.

The white dragon threw its head back, flaring its nostrils triumphantly. And then it turned, so suddenly Tyrion forgot to look away.

The dragon’s eyes were the color of molten gold. 

Tyrion felt his knees tremble. The dragon was looking at him. Directly at him. And Tyrion was standing very close to the beast, too close. He won’t have time to run away now, to hide in the crowd. His life was spent. 

But what was his life worth, the life of a dwarf, a kinslayer, a second son? A miracle stood in front of him, and everything else paled in comparison.

The dragon was making loud sniffing noises. 

‘If you were a woman, I’d love you,’ Tyrion told him. ‘If you were a whore, I would keep to your bed.’

The white beast stood up and moved towards him, its neck arched, its breath hot. 

‘I fucked a woman in a skull of your ancestor,’ Tyrion informed him. ‘What wouldn’t I give to know what’s going on in your head.’

A scaly muzzle was now so close it blocked everything else from view. Tyrion froze, like a rabbit before a snake. He couldn’t flee even if he wanted too. His limbs went numb. 

He cried when the beast opened its red maw to let out a hot translucent tongue. First he thought the dragon tore the skin off his brow. Then he realized the beast just licked away the dried blood from the wound Tyrion got in the battle. _Is there a difference? I’m done with anyway._

‘Viserion!’

The maw darted away. Tyrion dropped on his knees, which was lucky, as the next thing he knew was the dragon wing swinging exactly where his head was. He didn’t get a chance to thank the gods properly for this though. The dragon’s tail hit him like a warhammer, sending him whirling. Tyrion whimpered, turning in the air, and landed on something warm and scaly. 

There were tears in his eyes. He blinked them away. His bones ached, his head hurt, his hands couldn’t let go of the warm white scales for the life of it. 

‘What are you doing on the back of my dragon?’ Daenerys Targaryen asked him.

The dragon queen looked like a highborn lady whose cat brought home a dead mouse and put it on her pillow. 

‘Flying,’ he heard himself replying. ‘Have been dreaming about it since childhood, Your Grace.’

The queen narrowed her amethyst eyes. 

‘You’re that dwarf. From the pig show.’

Tyrion, still dazed, gave her an exaggerated bow. 

‘It delights me to know you saw me on the pinnacle of my career.’

‘You better get down before Viserion notices you,’ the Mother of Dragons advised him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tyrion Lannister.’

‘Lannister”! the queen exclaimed, going from mild amusement to anger in a split of a second. The black dragon behind her rose and hissed. There was a burnt smell in the air. ‘I heard about one Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. He killed my father.’

‘My brother,’ Tyrion announced proudly. The white dragon never bent his neck this time. On the contrary, the beast under Tyrion stood upright, vigilant and tense, ready to fight its black brother.

The ironborn with a charred hand brushed Dany casually aside, stepping forward to face Viserion.

‘Calm down!’ he ordered. 

Strange feeling gripped Tyrion so suddenly it took his breath away. He couldn’t name this new emotion, he just knew that it was strong, and powerful, and blinding. The only thing he could compare it with was being with a woman, but never with any girl he had experienced anything so intense.

He was sitting atop the dragon neck, and he was feeling the fire flowing inside the muscular throat. 

The ironborn’s eyes widened, his fingers clenched at the handle of his axe. 

‘No!’ Daenerys shouted. ‘Viserion, NO!’

‘Viserion, do it!’ Tyrion shouted. He hadn’t got a slightest idea what he was urging the beast to do, and he couldn’t care less. What did he have to lose? He was a dwarf, a fugitive, a wanted criminal, and he had just mounted a dragon. Nothing was left of the Tyrion Lannister he once believed himself to be. 

The black dragon dived and hit the white one right under the chin. The golden flames launched into the sky, harmless. 

Everyone fell silent. 

‘He listened to him,’ the queen whispered, astonished. ‘Viserion listened to the dwarf.’

‘The animal is wild,’ said the man who looked like a mastiff. ‘It’s not under control anymore. It got back its free will, just like I predicted.’

‘No,’ Daenerys said.

The queen turned to Barristan Selmy. 

‘Your stories are true, ser.’

The old knight blinked. 

‘I beg your pardon, my queen?’

‘I just remembered a rumour you repeated to me once,’ she replied. ‘Along with something Viserys told me when I was a child. Dragons can recognize Targaryen blood.’

Daenerys turned back to Tyrion.

‘Your father’s name is Tywin Lannister,’ she said with a strange little smile. ‘Your mother’s name is Joanna Lannister. They are cousins.’ 

‘They are dead,’ Tyrion corrected her. ‘I killed them both.’

It was her turn to blink at him in surprise. Her amethyst eyes were indeed remarkable. _She is more beautiful than Cersei._

‘My mother died giving birth to me,’ Tyrion explained. ‘My father I shot from a crossbow. We never saw eye to eye.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Daenerys replied quietly. ‘You never knew your father. Same as I never did. Get down from the back of my dragon this instant, Tyrion, a bastard of Aerys Targaryen.’


	11. DAENERYS

An obsidian candle was glowing bright, its flame absolutely motionless, like a frozen drop of water. Through the flames, like through a window, she saw faces. A face of a boy howling like a wolf. A face of a youth with lilac eyes, somewhat similar to her own. A face of a bald man with his teeth clenched tight. But there was one face that disturbed her most. A young man with dark brown hair and stern features. He looked strong, but desperation was lurking behind his grey eyes. It was a face of a man heading to his death. 

She saw the death, too. Other faces, frozen, empty, glaring at her with dead blue eyes. Dany trembled when they first appeared in the flames. She knew them. She saw them in her dreams.

‘I cannot abandon Meereen,’ she said. ‘Not at the moment.’

‘Your work in Meereen is done,’ the man who looked like a mastiff told her. ‘Time to move on, my queen.’ 

‘It’s my decision to make, not yours,’ Dany declared. ‘I brought havoc upon this city. It now falls on me to restore things to order.’

‘It was not havoc you brought,’ the man disagreed. 'It was the freedom of choice. You did upset the balance, Daenerys Targaryen, yet it doesn’t make you chained to the scales. They call you Mother, but you’re not a wet nurse. You helped the slaves to rise from their knees, but they need to learn to stand on their own.’

The queen said nothing, contemplating his words.

‘I understand your hesitation,’ the man continued. ‘It’s difficult for you to leave people who need your protection. However, your homeland needs protection, too. Desperately so. Westeros is waiting for you.’

‘What, women are sewing dragon banners in secret?’ Dany asked innocently. ‘And men are drinking toasts to my health?’

Marwyn the Mage looked at her, confused. 

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Most of them don’t even know you exist. People know little, it’s how they are. But there is a threat coming from beyond the Wall, and if you are not there to meet it, the North will fall.’

‘I’m only a young girl,’ the queen said, and she meant it this time. ‘I, too, know little.’

‘It never stopped you before,’ the man countered.

 _He is right._ It’s not the lack knowledge that’s stopping her. It’s fear. Westeros, her home, her dream, has been looming on the horizon for months, edging closer and closer by the day. Now she is only a step away from it. And she is afraid to make this last step.

 _I’m of dragon blood. A dragon does not fear._

 

***

The white dragon nagged the small man, demanding his attention. Dany wasn’t sure what to think about these two. Does Viserion see the dwarf as his toy? His playmate? His very own special scratching device? Or did the dragon really accept Lannister as his rider?

‘Marwyn says I have no obligations towards Meereen’s citizens,’ Dany said, finishing her story. ‘What do you think?’

The dwarf wrinkled what remained of his nose. 

‘I’m honoured and all that, Your Grace, but why are you so interested in my opinion all of a sudden?’

‘You were a lord,’ Dany explained. 'And you were a slave. You can look at the situation from both sides.' 

Tyrion scratched the half-healed scar on his brow. 

‘Tell me, my queen,’ he said. ‘Say, tomorrow you leave Meereen adrift. Say, in a week, the Meereen slaves are cursing your name. Why do you care?’

‘What do you mean, why?’ Dany asked, bewildered. ‘It’s my name they are cursing!’

The ugly Lannister nodded.

‘That’s your problem right there. You want to be liked. You want people to praise you. You expect gratitude for your great deeds. That’s where you’re mistaken.’

‘This is not the most important thing for me,’ Dany objected.

‘It still _is_ important,’ the dwarf insisted. ‘I wanted to be loved all my life. I can read the signs. Trust me, Your Grace, it’s not worth it. Love is a bad guide for a ruler. It is changeable. It is sold, purchased and hired.’ 

Dany shook her head. 

‘For me, it’s not about gaining the love of the commons. It’s about making the right choice.’

‘Ah.’ The dwarf smiled. ‘I have good news for you then, my queen. Your situation is unique. You have riches, you have men, you have ships. All this put together gives you the power of making your own choice. Making your own judgement about what’s right and what’s wrong.’

***

Hizdahr zo Loraq stood before his wife, trying to look nonchalant and failing.

‘We are married,’ he reminded her. ‘We said our vows.’

Daenerys shrugged. 

‘So many vows have been said lately. So many promises. For example, I recall you saying that by marrying you I’ll bring peace to Meereen. You didn’t keep your end of the bargain.’

‘I had no chance to do so!’ Hizdahr wailed. ‘That bodyguard you trust so much,’ Loraq pointed at Barristan Selmy, ‘he arrested me and kept me captive!’

Daenerys put her hand into a bowl standing next to her. She picked up a big chunk of red meat and threw it to her dragon. Drogon caught it in the air.

‘My dear husband. I don’t think you understood me fully. Either you give me my freedom back willingly, or I get rid of you as I see fit. The choice is yours.’

The black dragon clawed the meat to pieces and gulped them all down with one powerful movement of his throat. Hizdahr gulped as well.

‘This is blackmail,’ he said. 

Dany’s smile was the widest he’d ever seen on her face. 

‘Indeed it is. I finally learned your tongue, don’t you think?’

***

A thousand eyes were looking at her. A thousand faces, gaunt and groomed, young and old, strong-willed and humble, were turned towards her, waiting for her to speak.

‘I’ve stayed here for long enough,’ she announced. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’

The crowd sighed like a great sea beast.

‘I gave you freedom,’ the queen went on. ‘Together with you, I learned an important lesson. Freedom is a gift you need to take care of. A gift you need to protect. From now on, you are the ones responsible for your freedom.’ 

‘Mhysa!’ came a shout.

It was like a dam has broken down. The voices raised to the sky, pleading, demanding.

‘Don’t leave us!’  
‘Leave us money!’  
‘Leave us an army!’  
‘Leave us a dragon!’

‘I’ll leave you a steward,’ Dany announced. ‘Skahaz mo Kondak, the leader of the Brazen Beasts, will rule Meereen in my stead.’

‘An upstart!’  
‘A Harpy!’  
‘We don’t want Shavepate!’

‘If Skahaz disappoints you, you have the power to depose him,’ Dany said. ‘You now know how to do it.’

‘Mother!’  
‘Stay with us!’  
‘Protect us!’  
‘You promised!’

Daenerys Targaryen raised her hand. The crowd fell silent. 

‘Many of you used to be slaves,’ she said softly. ‘You were taken from your country, from your kin, from home. Many of you don’t even remember what it was, your home.

The silence grew so tense it was almost palpable. 

‘I, too, was taken against my will from the country where I was born. I’ve been roaming over foreign lands all through my life. But now, my home is calling for me. It needs me. And I must go.’


	12. JON

‘Disturbing news from the South, Snow,’ Stannis said darkly. ‘Some fraud appeared on the shores out of nowhere. He is taking castles. Claims to be a Targaryen pretender. His ships sport the banner, at least.’ 

‘We live in troublesome times, Your Grace,’ Jon replied politely. 

Baratheon gritted his teeth.

‘When I came to the North, I helped you,’ he said. ‘Now, I need to go South.’ The king gave Snow a meaningful glance. 

‘I’ll talk to Lord Manderly,’ Jon conceded. Stannis was not so pleasant an ally, but he indeed aided to wrest Winterfell out of Bolton’s clutches. Right now both Roose and his son Ramsay were on their way to the Wall. They were not travelling alone. Jon sent a score of his most shrewd men with them to make sure that the father and the offspring would not mysteriously disappear halfway, only to resurface elsewhere, their plans updated. 

‘You never pledged your sword to me,’ the king muttered.

‘I never did,’ Jon agreed.

Stannis was looking at him impatiently. Jon met his stare, his face perfectly blank.

‘At this point I’m willing to overlook this display of disobedience,’ Baratheon spit out. _The king must need the ships of the White Harbour very much._ ‘We’ll get back to this after I reclaim the Iron Throne.’

‘We’ll get back to this as many times as you require, Your Grace’, Jon said amiably. 

The king’s face reddened.

‘Ned Stark was just as stubborn,’ Stannis grumbled. ‘Look where it got him.’

Jon didn’t reply. 

***

‘Lady Dustin.’ Jon nodded, inviting the woman to sit down. 

She remained standing, her back straight, her shoulders squared. She looked like a raven in her prim black dress. 

‘I have a favor to ask of you,’ Jon went on.

The woman’s thin lips made an even thinner line.

‘I want to name you the Keeper of Winterfell.’

Her grey eyes widened. She sunk into the chair slowly.

‘You heard my speech after the battle. I took back the Stark homestead, but I’m not a Stark myself. Winterfell belongs to the trueborn children of my father. My half-brothers, Bran and Rickon, could still be alive. My duty is to find them. My half-sisters, Arya and Sansa, went missing. It falls on me to bring them back home. I have scraps and hints of information, but I don’t know how long it will take me to prove it right or wrong. I don’t know how long I will be away. I cannot leave Winterfell unattended. It stood abandoned for far too long.' 

Lady Dustin was silent. 

‘I appreciate the magnitude of this task. This is a huge request to make of any man. If you refuse, I will understand. I will find someone else to do this.‘

The woman’s lips moved. 

‘I will not refuse,' she said.

‘It’s a heavy burden,’ Jon warned her. ‘This winter will be long. The provision we brought with us will not last forever. Your enemies will try to challenge you. The castle will mostly be manned by wildlings, poorly trained and undisciplined.’

She lifted her head proudly, her grey eyes shining.

‘I am not afraid. I accept your proposition.’

 _Good. Greyjoy was telling the truth._ Jon knew he was taking a great risk with Lady Dustin. But he also knew, deep in his guts, that he chose right. These days, he had much more trust in his gut feeling than before.

‘In this case, please accept my thanks as well.’

Snow stood up with his hand extended. Lady Dustin’s palm was dry and hard like polished wood, and yet her handshake was surprisingly warm. 

***

Winterfell was full of life. Everywhere, there were sounds of men at work. Everyone who had any skills in carpentry, masonry and blacksmithing were busy rebuilding the castle halls and walls. The snowstorm receded, the sun was shining bright in the clear blue sky.

Most of the northern lords went home. The warriors of the mountain clans left for their mountains. Together with them travelled many wildlings, hoping to find a new home on the steep hills where it doesn’t matter who your father was and whether he had a noble name. The king and his army, together with Lord Manderly, departed for the White Harbour. All Ryswells returned to their lands, too - after swearing their loyalty to the Starks. Had Snow executed Lord Bolton, the situation could get out of hand, but Roose agreed to take the black, stripping Ryswells of the reason to revolt. As for the other northerners, most of them were all too happy to pledge their swords to the Kings of the North again. 

In the courtyard Jon saw Tormund. The giant sat at the well, polishing his axe. His furs were spattered with brown. 

Ghost ran to the big man, sniffed him, wiggled its tail and went back to Jon.

‘Long time no see,’ Snow greeted the giant. ‘Were you hunting?’

Hunting was the only thing wildlings could be tasked with safely.

Tormund’s red beard shook as he laughed loudly. 

‘Hunting! Har! Aye, I was. Quite a hunt, and quite the game.‘

‘Oh? Where is it then, your game?’ Jon asked absently. He looked around, expecting to see a hairy mass of a boar or a bear Tormund brought home. Ghost nudged his knee, and Jon moved his hand to scratch his direwolf behind the ear.

The giant grinned, and this grin made Snow freeze with his hand outstretched. 

‘For someone that sharp,’ Tormund said, ‘you can be incredibly stupid.’

The giant threw a silver brooch to Jon’s feet: a flayed man stretched on a rack. 

 

***

Tormund left for the kitchens, leaving Jon still standing in the yard looking at the brooch. Snow understood why the giant did what he did. As much as it made sense for Jon to keep Boltons alive, in Tormund's world view sparing the lives of such dangerous enemies was the stupidest thing to do.

It started snowing again. Ghost was running around with his maw opened, catching the snowflakes. Jon lifted his face to the wind, inhaling the frosty smell of winter.

‘My lord! My lord!’ someone called to him. 

Jon turned around. A boy was running towards him, the one who was in charge of the rookery.

‘A message, my lord, ‘ he said, giving Jon a piece of parchment, rolled tight. 

Snow frowned. 

‘Who from?’

‘The raven arrived from the Castle Black.’

For a moment, the winter wind turned from pleasantly cold to deathly chilling. Jon took the letter. 

It was Bowen Marsh’s handwriting, squat and sharp. The very first words made Jon’s skin crawl. Ghost stopped jumping around, bristled its hair and gave out a menacing growl.

Jon read on, feeling the chill creeping deeper and deeper into his bones. The Others were attacking the Wall. So far the Night Watch had enough men and firewood to keep them away, but it couldn’t last forever. Even now all the nearest forests to the south of the Wall were cut down. The black brothers had to travel further and further for wood and food. No one went beyond the Wall anymore. The army of undead was wreathing at the feet of the icy barrier, threatening to sweep over it any day now. 

Jon could almost see the nine hundred ninety-ninth Lord Commander, his lips bloodless, his gaze gloomy, his fingers clumsy with cold, writing slowly.

_‘I’m not asking for help. You won’t have time for that. I’m simply warning you. Gather all men you still have. Send ravens to all the lords who would still listen. Tell them to get ready. The freezing death is coming.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next POV: A slaver from Lys.


	13. A SLAVER FROM LYS

Braavos was founded by runaway slaves. No slaver galley would ever try to enter its waters. The captain of the _Goodheart_ thought himself cursed by both R’hllor and the Weeping Lady when he had to drop the anchor there. The galley was heading to Lys, carrying a handsome booty: a thousand of wild northerners taken from the caves of Hardhome. Capturing new slaves had never been easier. The wildlings jumped aboard like it was heaven, blabbering some nonsense about walking dead.

The _Goodheart_ , badly damaged by autumn storms, had to put in at Braavos, where it was immediately seized by the ships of the Sealord. But her sister ship, the _Elephant_ , managed to reach Lys. It had the same amount of wildlings in its hold. They were sold as slaves, and now the captain of the _Elephant_ was a very rich man.

Meaning to get even richer, the captain decided to make another risky journey back to the caves, and to take the rest of the wildlings. The _Elephant_ was about to leave port again, when the crew told its master some wench was asking for him.

She turned out to be a twig of a girl, thin, dirty, clothed in rags. The captain nearly laughed when she said she wanted to be hired to his galley. The laugh got stuck in his throat when he looked the little snip in the eyes. They were large and grey, with a feverish gleam about them. A halfwit, then. The captain shrugged and nodded his agreement. The crew could use some fun. 

It was no fun, though. Any sailor who tried to force himself on her found himself changing his mind very quickly. The captain decided to give it a try. He didn’t get far with the girl either. She wriggled out of his hands with a surprising vigor, jumped away, bared her teeth and growled, her back poised, her eyes mad. The captain felt his skin crawl. The wench was not only moonstruck, she was rabid. He didn’t want her to bite his cock off.

The _Elephant_ ’s crew could boast a number of cutthroats; some of them were bored enough to try to mow the halfwit down in her sleep. This attempt failed as well. It was like she felt them approaching. She rolled over on the floor and sat up, squatted like an animal ready to leap. In the dark, her eyes looked odd. There was nothing human about them. They were golden, merciless eyes of a wolf.

The men backed away. What was the hurry, anyway? They’ll have enough time to have their way with her on their way back. Right now she had work to do.

Soon the crew got other things to worry about. The days were getting colder, the storms were growing more and more vicious. The _Elephant_ moved alongside the shore. It was dangerous, but heading into the open sea was more dangerous still.

The halfwit now wore a warm hat and a parka. She got them by having a bet with the boatswain. She claimed she can tell him a story so terrible he’ll ask her to stop. When the wench started talking about the lands beyond the Wall and the White Walkers, the seasoned sailor merely grinned. He stopped smiling when she told him about a man called Mountain That Rides and a castle named Harrenhall. The boatswain gave her her winnings and never took another bet against her. 

One day, the captain noticed that the blue winter sky was marred with grey on the horizon. They reached the Wall. That day, the wench came to him to the bridge. 

‘I’ll go ashore here,’ she informed him, pointing at the tower of the Eastwatch. 

‘You’ll have to swim,’ the captain. ‘I’m not dropping anchor off here.’

‘You are. _Valar morgulis_.’

The captain gave up. He wanted to get rid of her anyway, didn’t he? He would throw the creepy little snip overboard, if not for the irrational fear that she would come for him after death. Her words were the last straw. The seven hells with it. She’ll get her wish and will stop being his problem. 

He hoped she’d die in this icy desert, alone.


	14. ARYA

Cold. Freezing, bone-chilling cold. 

‘Winter is coming.’ Arya whispered, her lips barely moving, already numb from the frost. ‘Winter is here.’

Behind her back the strong wind was filling the sails embellished by the Lyseni sigil. 

Eddard Stark would never travel on a slaver galley. He would seize the ship, capture the crew and behead them all. His daughter, however, could not afford to be too picky. No one else sailed to the Wall. The autumn storms were getting too deadly, the pirates too bold. It was too risky to travel by sea.

Arya had hoped to sneak past the Watch fortifications unnoticed, to find some sort of a path. It was a foolish plan, she understood it now. Her fingers were getting numb, her feet were freezing, her nose and ears were turning into icicles, or at least it felt like they were. She had only one solace. If she was to die, she’d die in the North.

By the time the black brothers came down to the docks to check if their eyes didn’t fool them and the unknown ship did indeed bring someone ashore, Arya was buried in a snowdrift face down, unconscious. 

***

‘My name is Arya Stark. I came to see my brother.’

The man she was talking to was short and bulky and bald. His weathered face showed no interest in her words. His name was Borcas, he was a steward and he, apparently, was now in charge of the Eastwatch. The whole garrison gathered in the tower where he was interrogating the newcomer. There were no more than twenty men. 

‘Lord Commander Snow left for Winterfell,’ Borcas told her, his voice tired. ‘To free some Arya Stark, his half-sister.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied, feeling her heart leap when he mentioned Winterfell. ‘I wasn’t there. Send your men to take me to my brother. He’ll recognize me.’

‘I have no time for these games,’ the watchman grumbled. ‘We’re leaving. We would have left already, if it was not for the ship. At first I thought it was Pike. Then someone said the ship may be crewed by the dead, so we were arguing whether we should fight or flee.’

‘You are leaving?’ Arya asked, frowning. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To the Castle Black. If we are to die, we want to die together with the others.’

‘To die? What do you mean, to die?’

Borcas took her to the Wall as an answer. Once outside, Arya whimpered and hid her nose in the neckband of her parka. The cold was maddening.

The watchman led her to a loophole and made her look down. She did. Her heart missed a beat.

‘I’m going with you,’ she breathed hoarsely.

***

She was given a pair of woolen breeches, boots, a sheepskin coat and gloves. The things were old and shabby, covered with dirt. She still put them on and said thank you.

She was told her no one was going to wait for her or feed her. But when it came to meals, the food was distributed evenly, as no one was willing to spend efforts on measuring the portions. They slept side by side, yet none of the black brothers ever tried to get what the _Elephant_ sailors attempted to take almost every night. It was too cold. Too scary. Too lifeless. 

Arya lost track of days. She would never make this journey alone. Her previous life seemed like a dream, distant and unreal. When cold was getting unbearable, she daydreamed, immersing herself into the images of warm southern lands, of nightly hunts, of the red blood flowing into her throat.

One day, the empty winter air acquired a new overtone. The smell of smoke. 

If she thought walking was hard before, now it was a torture. Arya staggered forward, colliding into men around her, trying not to fall down, staring straight ahead with the bleary eyes. The Castle Black approached slowly, revealing its stone towers, its catapults, the ram. But the most delightful sight was its chimneys. Smoke was rising from them. 

Arya stopped, exhausted to the point of collapse, and put her trembling hands on the railings. Down below, in the courtyard covered with snow, there were people. Many, many people.

One of them caught her eye, making her freeze with her mouth open.

She was looking at her father.


	15. BARRISTAN SELMY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Daenerys is busy dealing with the mummer's dragon, Barristan Selmy sees a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially, it was a separate fanfic. When I was writing 'Kiss of life', I suddenly realized that they both happen in the same universe, and looped it in.

'He is no dragon,' Daenerys proclaimed, looking at the boy before her. He had lilac eyes and pale hair with occasional blue strands in it.

Her words reached Barristan as through a thick wall. The knight was surprised to know Rhaegar's son survived, but it was nothing comparing to his astonishment when he laid his eyes on _her_.

White septa robes. Dark hair without a streak of grey. Proud bearings. Purple eyes, wise and mischievous at the same time.

He would know her anywhere.

The woman noticed his gaze and nodded slightly in acknowledgement. One nod, it's all. What did he expect? For her, he was still a white cloak, one of seven, same as at the time of the Harrenhall tourney. Many times Barristan wondered what would happen if he unhorsed the crown-prince that day, and named Lady Ashara Dayne his Queen of Love and Beauty. Would the story change its turn? Would the girl look at him instead of the Stark? Many times he told himself nothing would come of it. He was a knight of the Kingsguard, he gave his vows. He had nothing to offer her.

He was bound by a vow at the time. But not now.

For a moment this thought has rendered him speechless. The boy king freed him of his vows, and Daenerys never demanded them.

People were shouting now in the Great Hall of the Griffin's Roost. The young queen announced her decision. The safest solution would be to execute the boy on the spot, Barristan knew, for being a pretender. But he also knew Dany wouldn't be able to do it. The youth was to go to the Wall. Whether he would get there, Barristan had his doubts. But it was not his concern. Such decisions were up to kings. His job was to keep his monarch safe.

Barristan was doing his rounds the next morning when he saw her. He was standing on the castle wall when the white figure appeared amongst the grey rocks below, moving towards the water. The sea was calm today, the water crystal clear. He could see the seabed going down pretty sharply right next to the shoreline. The woman came from between the rocks, removed her robes and climbed the nearest boulder. She was in plain view of the castle and she evidently didn't care. She dived, entering the water with almost no splash.

Barristan could neither close his eyes nor avert them. It was not that he could see her clearly. It was not that he had never seen a bathing woman before. King Robert loved nothing more than spending his summer hours on the walls of the Red Keep and ogling at the girls who swam in the Blackwater. Barristan often stood watch next to him.

Yet now he was confounded, as if after a good blow at the head on the lists. He felt like a green boy, a blushing page, taking a sneak peek at his heart's desire for the first time.

He should have turned away. Such behavior was not fitting for a knight. It was even less fitting for an old man whose best days were long gone. For a sworn shield who outlived all three kings he vowed to protect.

'Such behavior is not fitting for a lady,' said the small voice in his head. 'It's even less fitting for a septa.' Barristan paid no mind to this thought. He was way too old for this. And he never liked games.

The knight gave the sea the last long stare and went on his way.

It was dark when he returned back to his chamber, a small room previously occupied by the Griffin's Roost's master-in-arms.

She was sitting on the edge of his bed, with the carved figurine of the Warrior in her hands. When he entered, the woman smiled at him.

'My lady,' Barristan said courteously, closing the door.

'Ser,' she replied, matching his cool tone. She rose to meet him. He could barely see her face in the dark, but her silhouette was clearly outlined against the window behind.

'Can I help you?' he asked.

'You can,' she said. 'I know you recognized me. My name will soon stop being a secret, but I'd prefer this to happen rather later than sooner. Can I ask you to keep it secret for now?'

'Absolutely, my lady.' She smelled like sea and feather grass. Barristan moved away from her and lighted a candle. 'I have to warn you, however. I have no secrets from my queen.'

'Queen Daenerys.' The woman touched her lips with her finger. 'She looks a queen. She acts a queen. But her decision yesterday… doesn't she understand?'

'She has a gentle heart,' Barristan replied. Time has left its marks on the face of his pretty guest, yet her eyes stayed the same, and her lips were still a delicious curve. 'She managed to stay gentle, despite everything she had to go through.'

'You are really devoted to her,' the woman said.

'She is my queen.'

'Your third queen,' she reminded him archly.

'It makes no difference.'

The woman fell silent, playing with a strand of her dark hair. Barristan watched her, feeling both old and young. He spent half his life at the court of Robert Baratheon. He knew how ladies behave when they favor a man – or when they want something. The woman in white septa robes came to him for a reason. He was Daenerys's man, her trusted advisor. His pretty guest was probably entertaining some plans - to influence Daenerys through him, to make the Queen Conqueror change her decision regarding the lilac-eyed boy with pale hair.

When the woman stepped towards him, Barristan was ready. Whether she was a schemer or a seducer made no matter. She was alive, while he believed he had lost her forever.

She didn't speak, only sighed slightly when his hands took her waist, and his lips met her lips. Her skin was cool and soft, her hair a silk curtain under his calloused fingers. The woman sighed again, her arms encircling his neck, and the old knight lost himself in the kiss that should have happened eighteen years ago.


	16. BRAN

Jojen Reed was dead. 

‘He knew,’ Meera was sobbing quietly. ‘He knew the day he would die. He knew the place it would happen.’ The girl brushed her brother’s brown hair from his pale brow. ‘From the moment we stepped into these caves he knew he’d never come out.’

Bran propped himself on his elbows and moved forward, dragging his useless legs behind him. He hated himself for being such a wreck. It took him a while to reach Meera, and when he did, he took her hand tremulously into his. The girl ignored that. She was looking at her brother, tears trickling down her cheeks. 

‘Hodor,’ came from the entrance. The halfwit giant stood there, looking at Jojen’s body morosely. 

‘Hodor,’ Bran called him. The world was cold and dim and empty. Meera was crying, Jojen was dead, and he, Bran of the House Stark, was useless. He could neither console Meera, nor change anything about her brother’s fate. 

‘Take me to the cave with the weirwood trees,’ he told the giant. 

***  
‘I know it hurts,’ said the man who lived in the weirwood tree. ‘I lost my loved ones, too.’

‘I don’t care,’ Bran snapped at him. He was already regretting his decision to come here. The three-eyed crow didn’t give him back his legs. It won’t give him back Jojen, either. 

‘Sit,’ the man whispered. The red eye pointed at the seat Bran usually occupied during their lessons. 

‘I don’t want to,’ Bran protested, but Hodor was already lowering him into the usual place amongst the thick white roots. 

‘Today, I will show you something special,’ the three-eyed crow promised him.

Bran clenched his fists stubbornly. He won’t listen. He won’t close his eyes. But his eyelids were getting heavy on their own accord, responding to the familiar surroundings. 

Bran blinked.

...Images - bright, vivid, captivating - enthralled him, seized him, consumed him. 

A woman with a crown on her cleanly shaved head, her face vaguely familiar to him, was laughing and crying at the same time, hugging a yellow-haired boy. ‘Let our enemies destroy each other!’ she shrieked madly.

Two armies, two endless streams of steel, were climbing through mountain passes, leaving red sands behind them. 

Knights in heavy armour were pushing back copper-skinned warriors in painted vests and horsehair leggings, the clash of swords mixing with the tinkling of small bells. Banners were flapping in the wind, black banners with a three-headed red dragon on them, but why were they on the both sides of the battlefield? There were other banners as well, sporting a strange emblem: a bunch of gilded skulls. 

Two fleets were fighting their ways towards each other through the waves of grey and stormy sea. The banners were weird again: a crowned stag, yes, but why was it inside a red flaming heart? The opposing ships were easy to place, though. Their sails were black, with a golden kraken on them. 

A tall man with a charred right hand was fighting to the death with a muscular man whose dark blue eyes betray no emotions, but his jaws were clenched so tight they looked like his teeth could shatter at any moment.

Unbelievable creatures were gliding in the sky, too big to be birds, too real to be a vision.

The black beast flew towards a dromond under the stag-and-flaming-heart banner flanked by two black-sailed brigantines. Now the heart on the banner was burning for real. 

The golden-white creature was circling in the sky above the battlefield. Its flame was less hot and less frequent then its black brother’s, but its mere presence wrought havoc in the ranks of the warriors in gilded helmets. 

There was one more flying beast, a green one, but it was harder to spot. The creature hovered high in the sky, taking no interest in the battle raging down below. Its song was a bitter cry, wistful and miserable. When it drifted too far, the black beast went after him. The flying nightmare found more than it was looking for. It spied a group of people on the ground, hiding in a small ravine.

A girl, her eyes purple, her silvery hair cropped short, was talking to another lady, black-eyed and curly-haired, her clothes brown with dust. ‘At my court you’ll be treated as an honoured guest,’ the silver-haired girl was saying. ‘Look at the escort I’m giving you.’ The black-eyed one made a face when a man stepped to stand next to her, a white-haired knight wearing a white cloak.

The black beast behind their back reared, its wings outstretched... 

Bran opened his eyes again. He heard a long sigh. 

‘I lived to see this moment,’ came the dreamy voice the man who was the weirwood tree. ‘Dragons are back.’  
***

When Bran returned to the cave where Jojen lay Meera was not crying anymore. She sat, motionless, holding her brother’s cold hand in hers. 

Still engrossed into his visions, Bran tried telling Meera about them, but his words didn’t do them justice. Even dragons didn’t look particularly wondrous when he described them.

She wasn’t listening. 

‘How can I help you, Meera?’ he asked her desperately. ‘I would do anything to help you!’ 

She winced. Her large green eyes turned towards him. Bran cringed. Last person who looked at him like that was Rickon when Osha was leading his little brother away, on the road leading to the White Harbour. 

‘Stop the long winter,’ Meera Reed told him, her voice lifeless. ‘Take me home, to my father. Bring my brother back to me.’


	17. JON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Arya and Jon meet. Also, other stuff happens.

‘I told you, Jon Snow.’ the red woman said triumphantly. ‘Your place is here.’

Jon shrugged.

‘For now, yes.’

‘While you were hunting ghosts, I was protecting your back.’ Melisandre proclaimed with just a hint of reproach in her voice. ‘Thanks to me, the Castle Black is still standing. It’s me who is keeping the Great Other at bay.’ 

‘Sounds like I might as well go home,’ Jon said, his face perfectly blank. ‘You have everything under control.’

Her shoulders sagged.

‘No. I’m much stronger here, on the Wall, but even my powers are not enough. I can stop the White Walkers, but I cannot make them go away. You, on the other hand, you’re Azor Ahai. You are chosen by R’hllor. This battle is yours.’

They were interrupted before Snow could think of an answer.

‘Jon,’ came a weak voice. ‘Jon.’

The Wild Wolf turned around. A young watchman, more a boy than a man, was walking, staggering, towards him. The boy’s face looked familiar, although Jon couldn’t remember him saying the vows. Is it some orphan who came to the Wall, afraid to die alone? Or a new brother who took the black while Jon was away?

‘Jon,’ the boy said hoarsely. He raised his hands and dropped them like they were too heavy for him.

Snow narrowed his eyes, searching through his memories, and then it hit him. The posture. The cheekbones. The grey eyes, feverish with hope. Suddenly, Jon saw all these features in a whole new light, unexpected, unbelievable. 

‘Arya?’ he managed. His voice broke.

She threw herself at him. He caught her, pulled her into a tight embrace, whirling, clutching to her like she was the last living thing in the world. He felt like he is pressing all his lost family to his heart: his father, Robb, Bran, Rickon, even Sansa, ever a haughty little lady. Next to him, Ghost was squealing and jumping and howling, mad with joy as well. 

For the first time since he had arisen from the dead, Jon felt alive. 

***

‘They are destroying the Wall,’ Bowen Marsh said. ‘They cannot cross it, but they can damage it, chipping off ice here and there. And we are unable to stop them.’

The past few months were not kind to the nine hundred and ninety nine Lord Commander on the Wall. He turned into a grey-haired old man, bitter, despairing.

‘They bring piercing cold with them,’ Othell Yarvyck added. ‘We’ll all die long before they break through. Ice will kill us, not the swords.’

‘The only weapon against them is fire,’ Marsh continued. ‘But we are running out of wood, and our provisions are short, too.’

‘In this case,’ Jon said, ‘there is only one thing we can do.’

‘Retreat,’ the Lord Commander nodded.

‘On the contrary. Attack.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Yarvyck snapped.

‘Did the red woman plant this idea into your head?’ Marsh demanded, disgusted. 

‘If we leave things as they are,’ Jon said, ‘we will either starve or freeze to death. I would prefer to die in battle, but that’s not the plan I have in mind. Fire is a good weapon against the White Walkers, but it’s not our only weapon. Aren’t our rangers armed with obsidian?’

‘They are,’ Marsh admitted. ‘So what? Going out there is certain death, and people know it.’

‘I’ll lead the outing,’ Jon said. ‘We won’t go far from the gates. There is no need. I’ll take archers and swordsmen. Bowmen will shoot at the Others with obsidian arrows, trying to take down as many of them as possible. The swordsmen will protect the archers. We’ll do as much damage as we can and then retreat.’

‘This is certain death,’ the Lord Commander repeated. 

‘This is a chance to tip the scales,’ Jon countered. ‘And I’m still waiting for your own ideas. Do you have any?’

*** 

All was well. The circle of flaming torches had robbed the wights of the possibility to charge the watchmen all at once. The ones who did go through the line of fires were finished by swordsmen. The archers filled the air with arrows, and the sharp, ringing shrieks signified obsidian arrowheads were hitting their marks. 

The sky was covered with thick, heavy clouds, but it hadn’t snowed yet. The red woman promised them a good visibility, and so far she was being true to her word. 

Jon was about to announce their safe retreat when the unexpected happened.

Somewhere from behind the deathly ranks a spider came forward. It was a size of a direwolf and looked like it was made out of coloured ice. Jon could see the content of its stomach, and when he did, his own stomach lurched. 

It was a baby. A half-digested little baby.

The spider was fast. It moved so quickly and erratically the archers wasted dozens of precious arrows and still failed to bring it down. The spider passed the watchmen and ran up the Wall’s icy surface, heading towards the opened gates.

The bowmen shoot again, cursing the damn thing. Finally, the spider jerked and fell onto the ground, shrunk, its legs pursed together. The ice of the Wall now sported a large red smear where the arrows had pierced the beast. It was blood, but not the blood of the spider. It came from the small body in the spider’s stomach.

There was a long, rolling sound like a thunder during a summer storm. It took Jon a moment to understand what it meant. 

Magic does not exist. That was the first lesson Jon learned in maester Luwin’s classroom. His life, however, taught him some notable exceptions to this general rule. When you see a walking dead, screaming ‘This is impossible!’ is a waste of time and breath. When a woman is standing in the freezing wind wearing nothing but a silk dress, and still seems warm, denying her powers is counterproductive. When one spends night after night in their wolf’s skin, claiming that wargs are children’s tales is downright silly. Magic is real. Magic is dangerous. Jon understood it long ago.

The trick was to pore through the cocoon of lies and embellishments, to remove them, layer by layer, until, in the heart of it, the truth is revealed. The challenge was to do it before making a decision you would later regret. 

Others cannot cross the Wall, he heard it many times before. Spells are woven into the ancient ice to stop the wights from entering. However, there were ways to fool the old enchantment. The Night’s King invited his Other queen in, and she was able to follow him. Joramun blew the Horn of Winter and part of the Wall collapsed when he did. 

Ygritte once said the Wall was made of blood. Jon dismissed it then. Her words came back to him now, freezing his heart faster than the winter cold. The blood of the First Men. Spill it, and the ice will hear its call.

 _I made a mistake. Probably my last._ He opened the gates in the Wall, and he kept them open, a safe passage to the other side. But, apparently, in the lands beyond the Wall there was a sorcerer who prevailed to use it to the enemy’s advantage.

A crack was running up the Wall, deepening, widening, turning into a gap, a rift, an abyss.

‘Everyone back off!’ Jon shouted, his voice trembling. 

The watchmen were already on the move, running towards the place they wanted to be the least - towards the dead enemy ranks. 

Behind their back the Wall started to fall, deceptively slowly at first. Huge ice blocks rushed to the ground, sending icicles flying everywhere. The gates, the solid oaken gates straightened with iron bands, disappeared from sight, covered with the grey mess. 

Jon looked around. Half of his people were no more, buried under the icy avalanche. They were lucky. Those who still lived had much nastier destiny ahead of them.

The White Walkers charged. 

‘I am the sword in the darkness,’ Jon said loudly, unsheathing his Valyrian blade. ‘I am the fire that burns against the cold...’

‘I am the light that brings the dawn,’ came the voices from behind him, the voices of his black brothers who went with him into their last watch. Half a hundred men. Everything that was left of the Night’s Watch. 

_We will all perish here_. Jon looked back at his men. Their last watch was about to end with a painful and horrible death. Pointless, too. The Others will break through anyway. There will be no watches afterwards, no songs and no hope. 

He glanced at Arya at his side, an obsidian dagger in her right hand and a flaming torch in her left, the narrow Needle dangling from her belt. Jon caught himself smiling. This was a bitter end, but the pack was meeting it together. Only two of them were left, granted, but they stood side by side and it was all that mattered to him.

As if responding to the words of their vows, his Valyrian blade shone with red and crimson of the winter sunset. Jon looked up at the sky. It was still covered with heavy clouds without a single opening between them. 

People started shouting. Snow turned to look behind him and gasped. What he saw was so unreal the Wild Wolf didn’t believe his own eyes. 

A huge form was hovering in the sky, dark and ominous against the grey clouds. Jon has never seen such a creature - a monstrous bird? a gigantic bat? While he was staring at it, two more winged beasts dropped down from above. The first, the black one, descended so low Jon can feel the waves of heat (oh, the blessed heat!) coming from it. He still couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing though. Especially when he noticed a slim female silhouette at the nape of the creature’s long neck. 

The beast soared, placing itself in front of the great breach in the Wall, causing a warm snowstorm with the flapping of its large wings. The scaled maw opened, revealing rows of teeth, black and sharp like obsidian blades. The creature inhaled deeply, and then let it all out. 

Jon’s sword glowed again, reflecting the fiery light of the dragonbreath.


	18. THE TIME OF WOLVES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where, originally, I found myself out of time. So I just compiled the ideas I had in mind for the next five or six chapters into one final story. That was the only way for me to get this fanfic finished. I hope you'll enjoy. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading and commenting!

The girl with silvery-golden hair was so petite Jon was towering over her. Many a man would call Daenerys Targaryen a beauty. They would be right, but Jon didn’t care about that. Her features were beautiful, yes, her figure slim and graceful, but it was the inner strength that made her stand out. She was no pampered little princess, she was a warrior, her eyes shrewd, her head high, her small hands callused. If Rhaegar Targaryen looked anything like his younger sister, it was no wonder Aunt Lyanna had put no fight when he kidnapped her.

‘When I asked for the Lord Commander,’ Daenerys was saying, ‘people gave me two names: yours and Bowen Marsh’s.’

‘I understand your confusion,’ Jon replied. ‘Bowen Marsh holds the title. As for me, I’m not even in the Night’s Watch anymore.’

Dany raised her fair eyebrows. The queen wore her hair short, its ends burnt with dragon flame. Jon found this strangely charming.

‘I saw you at the Wall,’ she said. ‘You were fighting like the rest. And I thought nothing could free a watchman of his vows, apart from death?’

Jon let the question hang in the air for a long moment.

‘Oh,’ said Daenerys Targaryen. That was all she said. 

The Wild Wolf was surprised. He expected her to be suspicious, to demand some kind of proof for what he was implying. He never expected her to understand.

The queen was watching him curiously as if he were some exotic beast.

‘Who are you, Jon Snow?’ she asked. 

‘This question is easy to ask and hard to answer,’ he said gravely. ‘I was a bastard of Eddard Stark, but my father is long dead. I was a man of the Night’s Watch, but now my watch has ended. All my debts are now paid.’

‘What are you going to do next then?’ Daenerys wanted to know. Jon sighed. Kings and queens are all the same. This one didn’t ask him questions out of mere curiosity.

‘I’m going to search for the other children of my father. To bring them home,’ he replied. ‘There should always be a Stark in Winterfell. After that… I will decide when the time comes.’

The queen was looking at him with a little smile on her lips. This bothered him. He knew that calculating looks on monarchs. She is plotting something, he was ready to bet on it.

‘When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves...’ the Conqueress muttered.

‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace,’ Jon said politely. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Never mind.’ Dany smiled again. ‘When you are done with your new self-appointed duties, you are welcome to come to court. I am in desperate need of competent commanders.’

***

‘So, we meet again, bastard.’ said Tyrion Lannister. 

‘Well met, dwarf.’ Jon answered, shaking the small man’s hand. 

They were standing on the top of the Wall, facing north, looking at the endless frozen forest on the horizon. Yesterday everything one could see from here and beyond was snow. Miles and miles of snow. Now, the grounds adjacent the Wall were black, charred, still smoking at places. 

They could see people in the distance, working, bustling around. The builders were mending the icy surface damaged during the battle, patching the gaps and and crevices, repairing the structures molten in dragonfire, restoring the defences. 

‘When I was leaving the Wall the last time, I made a stop in Winterfell,’ Tyrion said. ‘I promised you to do something for your crippled brother, remember? I kept my word, you know.’

‘Did you?’ Jon asked, genuinely curious. 

‘I gave Robb Stark plans for a special saddle that would allow your brother to ride a horse despite his disability.’ Tyrion informed him. ‘It never stopped your stepmother from kidnapping me, though.’

‘Catelyn Stark was not my stepmother,’ Jon corrected him. There were times when the mere mentioning of the name of his father’s wife made his blood boil with anger. Now, he didn’t feel even a slightest bit of annoyance. 

Melisandre finally told him the full truth about his miraculous resurrection. Catelyn Stark, half-mad, half-dead, arrived to the Wall to give the kiss of life to the bastard she hated all her life. Bewildered, Jon asked the red witch why Lady Stark would do such a thing. Melisandre shrugged his question away. The ones who came back from the dead, she said, rarely stay the same way they used to be. Often, their mind loses the ability of complicated reasoning. Quite possibly, the whole grand motive for Lady Stark behaviour boiled down to the primitive whim: ‘This face, I like.’ As simple as that. 

‘Your gift won’t be in vain,’ Jon promised. ‘I’ll come back to you for the plans after I find my brother.’

They looked at the distant forest again. According to Lord Liddle, Bran Stark, the heir to Winterfell, was there somewhere, lost in the snowy wasteland, possibly dead. It didn’t matter to Jon. He will find the body of his little brother and bring it home. The Stark blood should be resting in the Stark crypts.

‘Speaking of brothers.’ Lannister snorted. ‘I cannot wait to see Jaime’s face when he meets my new pet.’

The dwarf whistled, and the white dragon let out an answering cry. 

‘He likes you,’ Tyrion told Jon. ‘As a rule Viserion doesn’t allow anyone to come near me. Except his Mother, of course.’ 

They both narrowed their eyes watching the black dragon flying over the forest. He was pursuing his green brother, bringing him back to the Wall. Both beasts looked like birds from this distance. 

‘Dany is worried,’ Lannister added softly. ‘Rhaegal is getting more and more wild and unruly. Doesn’t let anyone near. She wonders if he ever takes a rider.’

‘What is it like, to be a rider?’ Jon asked. 

Lannister fell silent for a long time. 

‘It’s like a dream that came true,’ he said finally. ‘Like a jump into the abyss. Like a miraculous opportunity to correct everything you ever did wrong, and to make huge lot of new mistakes. One should be a bastard, or a cripple, or a broken thing to really appreciate this chance to start their life anew.’

***

_‘You will perish,’ the man who was the weirwood tree told him. ’You got here, Bran Stark, but there is no way back for you.’_

_‘I am leaving,’ Bran replied stubbornly. ‘Meera wants to go home. And it’s my duty to return the body of her brother to Greywater.’_

_‘Your only duty was to get here. Now, you owe nothing to anyone.’_

_‘I am Stark of Winterfell. Reeds are my bannermen. I have obligations.’_

And now, Bran wondered, can I say I did my duty if the daughter of my bannerman and I froze together in the same snowdrift?

The man who lived in a weirwood tree had warned him. He didn’t listen. The Children of the Forest gave them enough food for the journey, and they were still accompanied by Coldhands. But the elk ploughed through the deep snows with great difficulty, spending a good part of the time getting out of yet another cranny or ravine hidden by the snow. Hodor moved much slower as well. Apart from Bran in his basket, the halfwit giant had to carry Jojen’s body wrapped in an old black cloak.

In the daylight the freezing cold was more or less bearable. The night, however, almost killed them. Bran slept between Meera and Summer, and yet he spent the long dark hours shivering. 

In the morning, the Coldhands woke them up with a shout of alarm.

Ever since they left the hidden dwelling of the Children of the Forest Bran has been on his guard, looking around for any sign of movement. On their way to the three-eyed crow the hundreds of dead things were pursuing them. Where were they all now? The frozen wasteland was empty. Even Summer couldn’t find any game, alive or dead or otherwise. 

Now he got the answer to this question. The undead did not leave. They were just biding their time, waiting for their prey to travel far enough from the safe haven. Now their wait was over. Wights were gathering at the foot of the hill the company made their camp. 

Bran closed his eyes and sent his mind roaming, looking for the biggest, strongest creature in the vicinity. 

It so happened that he found one. It so happened the creature was also the hottest one around.

***

Arya gave the woman in a prim black dress a long, cold, piercing stare. 

‘You do something fishy, I'll kill you,’ she said bluntly. 

Arya didn’t care if Jon made this black hag the Keeper of Winterfell and a warden for two young Starks. It would still be many years before Rickon came of age. She wanted to make her point unmistakably clear. 

Rickon Stark, a stout six-year-old heir to Winterfell, guffawed and clapped his hands at her words. 

To Arya’s surprise, Lady Dustin smiled, too.

***

‘You could be Ned’s twin.’ 

The woman was far from young, but she was still handsome, her purple eyes twinkling, her white septa robe giving her the air of wicked innocence. 

‘So I’ve been told,’ Jon agreed politely. ‘I have my father’s looks.’

The woman waved it away.

‘You look nothing like your father. You took after your mother. Lady Lyanna.’

For a moment it felt like Jon was back on the Wall, back in the moment when his fellow watchman stabbed him from behind.

‘What?’ he asked her, his lips numb, his hands cold.

‘You didn’t know?’ The woman looked surprised. ‘Isn’t that the reason why you came to court? They say the new queen has decided to gather all the Targaryen bastards around her... while rejecting the only true heir.’

‘I am not here to discuss the claim of Aegon the Pretender,’ Jon answered, his thoughts in a turmoil. ‘I came to serve the queen. My close friend, the rider of Viserion, resides here in King's Landing. And I want to be close to my brother, the rider of Rhaegal.’

‘To serve the queen.’ The woman repeated his words with a hint of bitterness in her voice. ‘This has Starks written all over it. Serve. Do your duty.’ The woman ran her fingers through her hair, beautiful dark hair with streaks of grey in it. ‘I wish Starks could think with their hearts, not only with their heads,’ she added sadly.

***

‘I’ll be honest with you, Lord Snow,’ the girl said coyly. Her dark hair was falling in ringlets to the middle of her back, her large dark eyes were full of promises, her full lower lip was pouting slightly. She was wearing the most revealing dress Jon ever saw on a highborn lady. ‘I’m sick and tired of sitting here with a sole purpose of being a token of peace between Dorne and the Iron Throne.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Lady Martell, but I don’t see how I can help you.’

Her black eyes twinkled. 

‘If it were Aegon who won the Iron Throne, my father would marry me to him. Yet it was not to be. Daenerys took the throne. While she reigns, I will remain a prisoner here in King’s Landing. Unless someone,’ she put her small hand on Jon’s wrist, ‘would be willing to help me out of this boredom.’ 

‘I don’t see how I can help you,’ Snow said again.

‘Targaryens could have more than one spouse.’ Arianne winked at him. ‘If Queen Daenerys takes a husband, the lord he chooses can have two wives instead of one.’

‘What does it have to do with me?”

‘Oh, Lord Snow, don’t be such a mule head,’ the Dornish princess said, eyeing him archly. ‘Everyone knows Her Grace fancies you. If you asked her to marry you, she’d say ‘yes’ long ago.’

Jon kept his face blank, but his mind was racing. The court gossipers loved nothing better than to mock him saying he had snow for brains; and yet Jon was well aware of the fact that the Queen prefers his company to any other. Without knowing it, Lady Martell gave him an answer to the question that was gnawing at him since he realized that the Queen liked him. It was not that he didn’t like her back. But there was a girl he loved more. However, would he marry the woman of his choosing and bring his wife to court, Daenerys would not take the news kindly.

‘Please accept my thanks, Lady Arianne,’ he said, kissing the hand of the Dornish princess and giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. ‘You did me a great favour. I will never be able to pay you back, I’m afraid.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Arianne asked, taken aback.

‘I have to leave you now,’ Jon said in reply, bowing his head. 

In his chambers, he strode to the table and grabbed a quill. He was writing fast, as fast as his heart was beating, to the girl who claimed that heart ages ago. 

He was writing to Winterfell.


End file.
